If you need me, I’m going back to the space between illness and wellness—that magic place where reality bends in the periphery until it snaps, sharing fractals of what you thought you knew and so much more of what you didn’t… but someway, somehow, most certainly did.
The place where the least sense makes the most sense. A language the heart finally understands.
And in this place, the micro-things in an un-micro body wage an infinitesimal war for their infinitesimal lives. An infinitesimal existence that somehow eclipses the purpose I half-assedly proclaimed for myself in this thirty-second year. As their duty to the greater good drives every moment of their microscopic lifespans, I’m here, glancing—left and right and left again—worried the invisible-but-must-be-there, rushing monsters will sweep me away when I take that first barefooted step out of bed and into the chasm of what could be.
“What could be,” it seems, is always at the cost of what is—a relocation, a moving on, a letting go. And “what is” happens to be the street address of fear, who isn’t so easily evicted.
But in this cosmic space between health and frailty, in these twilight hours of existential expansiveness, I find myself falling, somehow dancing—tiptoed, turning, tapping, twirling—through the stained glass version of what very well’s supposed to be.
Though single frames, cut in on themselves, there’s a harmony to this moving montage. A comfort in distortion, an uncertain certainty I’d never know in the normal place. Because when shapes move outward from an unknown center, I see them in unison—and one by one, all the same—a streaming vision of multiple everythings. And instead of sun rays, I feel stories shoot from fingertips, eyelashes, toenails, and lips. The birthplace, the life-giver, the soulshine mama, who radiates with a setting love.
These, mind you, the same realities that in normal time and space would criss-cross and intercept each other—an intellectual rape of what simply is.
And the taste changes in my mouth in this normal place as I consider how much easier it was elsewhere; I danced in on a stellar plane, and watched with glimmering eyes, the true things, traveling away from this small, single frame. Parallel lines, pregnant with stories. Moonbeams shot from peepers. And all the tales, all the assumptions of what this life should probably be, arranged themselves in a hopeful spectrum—a vision of art and love and possibility.
So let me go back to that place.
Where November is the new date of due. Where unkindness can’t penetrate a sweet, fleshy armor. Where there’s no need to ask, as the yeses already rain from the skies. Where certainty, though uncertain, is reliably so.
When the moon comes for me again tonight, promise you’ll let me go.